


Zombie

by LynnLarsh



Series: Votron Promptober [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: But not because he wants to, Death Threats, Explicit Language, Fuck I forgot to add in Hunk's cameo....... he's making cookies for everyone in the back somewhere, Gen, It's the zombie apocalypse guys, M/M, Scars, Shit's dark, They need them, which might be worse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:19:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynnLarsh/pseuds/LynnLarsh
Summary: Keith, Pidge, and Shiro are found by a camp of survivors and offered respite.  Keith tries to keep a secret and fails.





	Zombie

**Author's Note:**

> So three days into Promptober and I'm already behind... This is supposed to be Day Two but much like Ghost... it got away from me. Which means I'll probably be skipping Day Three completely. But! There will be more to come either way.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who left comments on Day One! They definitely motivated me to keep going even when I felt like I was getting longwinded in Day Two. Like I said, if I get enough positive response for any Days in particular, I'll definitely do my best to revisit them.
> 
> Now on with the show! Day Two: Zombie

It’s an odd thing to notice, made even more so considering the circumstances, but it’s something Keith can’t seem to stop dwelling on these days. It doesn’t matter where, doesn’t matter for how long, but post-apocalyptic terrain is a Bitch to travel on by foot. Especially when he’s down from two to one, his left ankle swollen and inflamed beyond function. By the way he keeps shivering, it’s probably already infected too, a mild fever setting in.

But he’ll take this kind of infection over the alternative every time. Doesn’t mean he won’t complain about leaving their car twenty-six miles back. As he has been. For the last five.

“You’d think… someone… would leave… a Jeep or something… that we can hotwire… you know?” He grunts out between each painful hobble down the empty strip of road. 

“Need to take a break?” Shiro asks, voice rough with lack of sleep but otherwise strong. He shifts a sleeping Pidge a bit more comfortably on his back but otherwise doesn’t stop walking, as if he already knows Keith’s answer.

“I’m fine,” Keith grumbles, adjusting his messenger back more tightly across his chest and resting a hand against the dagger on his holster for comfort. This pain is nothing, already much dimmer than it was when they’d been knee deep in it. He’d consider himself lucky if he wasn’t so tired. And hungry. And fucking freezing now, mild fever pulling into a full blown boil, but he’s used to it. It goes away eventually, no more than six days and change, like clockwork.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t fucking terrifying. Every goddamn time.

Shiro must know this, must see it in Keith’s eyes or hear it beneath the petulance in his voice, because he doesn’t argue. If anything, he just offers plans of action, mindless chatter to take their minds off things, simple words of comfort and hope, as if he isn’t currently missing an arm and scarred across his nose. As if he hadn’t had to deal with an extra year of this shit before the outbreak had managed to reach the desert.

And yet, at the end of the day, Keith is still just nineteen, still barely adjusting to all of this, and so he complains. Loudly.

“I’m just… saying,” he huffs, bending down to pick up a large stick off the side of the road, leaning bodily into it for support as he keeps up with Shiro’s pace. “A Jeep… would be nice… you know?”

Even from where her face is currently buried in Shiro’s neck, Pidge’s long, drawn out groan echoes through the trees with a surprising amount of volume.

“You know what else would be nice?” She snaps, glasses askew as she glares at him from over Shiro’s shoulder. “A fucking shower. Or how about a quarter pounder with cheese from McDonald’s? A bottle of Mountain Dew maybe? Do you have any of that for me, _Keith_?” Despite the way he bristles, despite how the low grade pain emanating up his leg and into his hip makes him want to argue just for the sake of letting off steam, he bites his tongue; he knows his complaining is unreasonable, he just can’t help it. As expected, Pidge takes his silence as answer enough. “No? Then let me try and nap off this hunger headache in peace.”

Pidge returns her face to Shiro’s neck and Keith has to bite back the sudden desire to whine about how Shiro takes pity on her tiny legs and carries her too much. All injuries aside (and sure, she’s got a pretty wicked gash on her leg and some bruised ribs right now but, like) it’s still not fair. Shiro must see the words on the tip of his tongue anyway.

“Pidge, Keith,” he finally chimes in with that world weary sigh that Keith hates, not just because it makes him feel guilty (Keith is usually the cause of it nowadays if he’s being honest with himself), but because it shows just how much Shiro has aged in their time apart. Not physically really(outside of the muscles and the scars… and the arm) so much as mentally. Psychologically. “We can take a break in an hour, but we have to get more distance between us before we-”

Whatever Shiro is about to say is cut short by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot and the shattering of tree bark to the direct left of Keith’s ear.

There’s a whirl of motion to his behind him, Pidge scrambling to the ground with her gun already pulled and pointed at nothing, Shiro yanking his machete from the holster at his back with the ease of familiarity. But Keith is too stunned to do much more than cup his ringing ear and fumble for his own dagger, eyes frantically scanning his surroundings. Once the ringing stops and his head begins to clear, he makes to shift forward into a more battle ready stance.

“Not another step, mullet,” a voice orders from above their heads. Their whole party looks skyward on reflex, but it’s Keith who spots the marksman first. “Weapons away for me, please.”

He doesn’t look much older than Keith, possibly even a year or two younger, with tan skin and dark brown hair. He’s currently stretched out, comfortable as can be along a tree limb, sniper rifle trained on their party with a practiced ease.

Shiro already has his machete re-sheathed (his uncanny sense for danger apparently telling him there is none) and Pidge already has her gun holstered and her hands up in the universal symbol for We Mean No Harm. But Keith isn’t buying it.

“You tried to shoot me,” he calls out into the trees with an accusatory sharpness, changing the grip on his blade into something more comfortable. And hopefully more threatening. Unfortunately, the sniper seems unfazed.

“No. I very intentionally _missed_ shooting you,” he says, and even from a good thirty feet below him, Keith can see the not so subtle roll of his eyes. “No use killing someone that isn’t already dead. We’re not monsters here.”

“And where _is_ here, exactly?” Shiro asks, the epitome of calm and authoritative composure. Not that the guy seems to care. “Our intel says there shouldn’t be another Survivor’s Encampment for at least thirty miles.”

“We’re not an encampment,” the guy replies, voice pinched as if to say that they’re idiots for thinking so. But before he bothers to grace them with an explanation, he pulls a walkie rom his belt and proceeds to radio someone from their non-encampment. Though his right eye never strays far from the scope. “Allura? Yeah. Yeah they are. Not that I can tell.” A string of murmurs pass that Keith can’t quite make out before the guy is staring even more poignantly through his scope, barrel shifting between the three of them with pinpoint accuracy. It makes Keith’s hair stand on end. “A few minor lacerations and bruises on the small one, missing limb on the big one. Maybe a broken ankle on the mullet. Nothing major if I had to- You sure?” He pauses, lets out a breath, and then pulls away from his gun. “You’re the boss, princess. Tell Coran not to waste too many supplies this time.”

Then, as if he isn’t thirty feet in the air, the guy sits up, slings his rifle onto his back, and then drops to the ground in an effortless ninja roll. He even goes so far as to brush off his pants once he gets to his feet, as though he’s not covered in the same fine layer of grime as the rest of them.

“You’re in luck,” he eventually says, staring over Keith’s shoulder to address Shiro as if he and Pidge aren’t even there. “Apparently you’re interesting enough to merit a golden ticket.”

“So that’s it? We just get a free pass?” Keith practically snarls, not sheathing his dagger even after Shiro places a placating hand on his shoulder.

“Look,” The guy has the gall to seem annoyed at Keith’s still drawn weapon, even going so far as to walk into his personal space and push the blade out of line. “If the Princess says you’re safe, you’re safe. Don’t know how she knows, but we’ve learned not to question her motives. So just… don’t be difficult, okay? I’m fucking wiped and ready for some of Hunk’s cooking.” As an afterthought that nobody is really expecting, he adds a casual, “The name’s Lance by the way.”

Then, as if Keith couldn’t stab him in the back on a moment’s notice, Lance turns on his heel and starts stalking off into the woods, gesturing over his shoulder for them to follow.

Keith slowly turns his glare from Lance’s back to Shiro.

“You can’t be serious,” he whispers, though he has to hold himself back from snarling. Shiro just shrugs, already following Lance down the path.

“You said you were tired,” Shiro says. Like a traitor. “So might as well see what this camp has to offer.”

“I’d listen to Tall, Dark, and Swole,” Lance looks over his shoulder just enough to waggle his eyebrows and wink. Keith wants to gut him. But he trusts Shiro, more than anyone, so he finally sheaths his dagger and follows. Even if following at their speed means he’s panting harshly and basically dragging his bum leg about two miles in.

“Wanna stop for a sec?” Pidge asks as quietly as possible, but somehow Lance still manages to hear.

“You need a break, mullet?”

“No,” Keith doesn’t hold back the snarl this time, even if his grip on the makeshift walking stick has gone knuckle-white and his brow is dotted with sweat. Even if Lance is eyeing him like he knows Keith’s breakneck stride is barely hanging on by a thread.

“So what happened?” Lance asks as he makes a sharp turn into the foliage, holding the branches taut to allow them all to pass through. “You guys get into some trouble?” 

“Not your problem,” Keith says on autopilot, shoving past Lance with enough force to thoroughly check his shoulder. Not that he responds with anything more than a clipped chuckle in response.

“Okay, okay,” he says once everyone is on the new path. “Sore subject. Whatever.”

They walk in silence for a while after that. Which would be fine, if Keith’s ankle wasn’t seriously starting to demand he take a break. Right now. Like, ASAP. But fuck if he isn’t too proud to say anything in front of _Lance_. 

Shiro, however…

“We should stop,” he says the second time Keith stumbles, nearly breaking his walking stick in attempts to go unnoticed.

“Shiro…” Keith hisses, but it’s too late.

“Not a big deal,” Lance basically preens. “Some of my team decided to meet us halfway anyway, so you’re in luck!”

“Dammit,” Keith groans under his breath, ignoring Pidge’s comforting (and demeaning) shoulder pat, as well as Shiro’s look of concern.

No more than a minute later, two woman have pushed through the dense foliage, guns at the ready. The blonde seems young, her eyes still bright and a little nervous in comparison to Lance’s steely blues and the even harder stare that the older woman carries. Her dark skin is sun worn, silver hair cut pixie short, and her presence reminds Keith of Shiro’s; a woman who’s seen too much and lost even more.

“These them?”

“The very same, Princess,” Lance nods, stepping back to allow the woman to give them a proper once over. Her gaze is calculating, analytical, and despite himself, Keith feels his hackles raise, the desire to hide his busted ankle suddenly overwhelming. If the woman notices any defensiveness, however, she doesn’t comment, merely looking in each of their eyes one last time before holstering her gun.

“I apologize,” she says in a regal sounding British accent, holding out a hand for each of them in turn to shake. “We can not be too careful anymore, I’m afraid. Our base has suffered enough misfortune for a lifetime.”

“We completely understand,” Shiro replies, the picture of diplomacy as always; Keith’s just glad he isn’t expected to respond.

“My name is Allura, this is Romelle and Lance,” she says, pointing to the blonde and the sniper in turn, Lance even going so far as to bow. Keith clicks his tongue and looks away, though not before catching sight of Allura’s not so subtle roll of her eyes. He instantly likes her more.

“I’m Shiro, and this is Keith and Pidge,” Shiro continues to play de facto leader. “We know it’s a lot to ask, but we could really use a safe place to rest and restock on supplies before we continue on our way. We also have a couple of injuries we would appreciate having someone on your team look at as well,if you can spare some medical supplies.” Keith tenses before remembering Pidge’s scrapes and bruises, letting out a silent breath. “We don’t have much to trade, but we can pay you back in hard labor.”

Allura seems pleased at Shiro’s offer. Or maybe just at Shiro, it’s hard to tell. Even Keith can admit Shiro wears his new post-apocalyptic presence well, for all that it continues to break Keith’s heart with every new discovery.

“I will admit that we don’t have much to spare, but we’ll help you where we can,” she agrees easily, and then much to his paranoia, she fixes that kind (and calculating) stare back on Keith. “Will you be all right for another couple of miles? You seem to be having trouble with your ankle.”

This time, even Shiro tenses at the unspoken implication; this Allura is sharp, but there’s no reason to believe she suspects anything. Still doesn’t mean Keith isn’t sweating beneath his collar, willing his voice steady before replying.

“I’ll be fine. Just twisted it a bit.”

If anyone notices the way his grip tightens on his walking stick or how Pidge lets out a soft breath through her nose, there’s still no comment. Instead Allura just instructs Romelle to take the lead and Lance to cover their back. Then, without another word, they continue on through the trail-less wood.

It takes another hour and two breaks, but eventually they pass through the last stretch of foliage and into a brilliantly hidden and incredibly well guarded base. It almost comes off as a fortress with how they’ve constructed the perimeter wall, their lookout stationed a good twenty feet up. Thanks to Allura, they have no problem getting inside, and Keith can’t help the small intake of breath at the sights beyond.

They’ve sectioned off areas for farming and livestock, actual houses, not tents, lining the far left strip of land. There’s a decent amount of people milling about, some men and women doing laundry, even a handful of kids. It’s obvious, much like the rest of the world, that this place hasn’t gone untouched by their new, tragic life. But compared to where they’ve been, what they’ve seen, it almost feels a little bit like a hidden paradise.

“How long have you guys been here?” Pidge asks, clearly thinking the same thing if the unmasked awe in her voice is any indication. A boy and girl no older than six run past her playing tag and her eyes nearly bug out of her skull.

“My father used to work for the CDC,” Allura explains, leading them to what Keith instantly recognizes as their medical facility. “He was one of the first to realize there would be no cure in time to prevent severe loss of life. So he built this place and brought everyone in that he could.” here, Allura goes quiet, stopping in front of the facility door, back to them all. “He thought he could create an antidote on his own. The experiments became the death of him, I’m afraid. That was five years ago now.”

Then, as if she hadn’t just revealed a tragic part of her painful past, she swings open the door and motions for them all to go inside.

“Now let's have Coran take a look at you all, shall we?”

Coran turns out to be an orange-haired, mustached man with a genuinely kind expression and a knack for patching people up. Within seconds, he has Pidge diagnosed with two cracked ribs based purely off how she’s breathing and holding herself. Shiro has also apparently been hiding a pretty substantial contusion on his arm that neither of them had noticed, Coran putting ice on at once. They Australian doctor is definitely good at his job. 

As much as Keith instantly trusts the man, especially when he offers him one of the only chairs in their small waiting area to rest his ankle, he can’t help but shy away from his own treatment though.

Allura and Romelle left as soon as they were situated, but for some reason Lance sticks around, stealing the other chair and leaning back into it with a content sigh.

“Not a fan of doctors?” He asks, all nonchalant, glancing at Keith out of the corner of his eye as he throws his arms above his head in a lazy stretch.

Keith keeps his own face composed, trying not to sound suspicious when he replies, “I just don’t think it’s that serious.”

“Your skinny jeans tell a different story.”

Keith raises an eyebrow at that, incapable of not taking the bait. “And that is?”

“Your ankle is really swollen, dude.”

And Lance is right. He hasn’t really looked at it since the attack, too worried that someone would see. But even with the cuff of his jeans covering it completely, it’s obviously almost twice it’s usual size. 

“I’ll just have Shiro look at it later, once he's had a chance to take a break.”

A silence stretches between them in which Lance all but stares holes into the side of Keith’s face. Then he scoffs. “Coran is an actual doctor, you know. Like, before the world went to shit he was a surgeon or something.”

“I’m sure he’s great,” Keith huffs right back, crossing his arms over his chest and hoping Lance will recognize the body language and just drop it. He doesn’t.

“Fine, if you’re so scared of big, mean, Dr. Coran, then at least let me take a look, make sure it’s not broken.”

Keith’s heart stops.

“Why the fuck do _you_ care?” He snaps, angling his legs as far away from Lance as possible without leaving his seat; now that he’s sitting, he doesn’t think he could put enough weight on it to run away. But Lance is already getting out of his chair, walking in front of Keith, and getting down on his knees.

“I feel bad, all right?” Lance clicks his tongue, cheeks coloring. “I was walking pretty fast earlier without really realizing you were this hurt.”

“Wait, wait, don’t! I said I’m fine, just-”

“I'm trying to say sorry, jeez!” Lance glares, fingers gently rolling up the cuff of Keith’s jeans as he mumbles, “This is what I get for trying to do something nice for the new guy.”

Keith barely hears it though, his heart pounding in his ears. “Lance, please,” He croaks out, trying and failing to pull his leg out of the boy’s surprisingly strong grip. “Just leave it, you don’t have to-”

But it’s too late.

Keith can see it in the way Lance’s whole body goes tense, in the way his fingers freeze a couple of inches above the gnarled and infected skin. He can see it in the way Lance’s blue eyes go wide with fear and his throat catches on a dry and shaky swallow.

Even though Keith knows what’s going to happen next, it doesn’t make it any easier.

Lance is on his feet in nearly a split second, gun drawn and pointed in Keith’s face so quickly Keith nearly misses the transition. Lance’s own face is blank, the fear in his eyes replaced by a resigned sort of acceptance. This isn’t the first time this has happened to him; it’s not the first time he’s had to pull the trigger on someone either (maybe friend, maybe family) if the steadiness of the barrel between Keith’s eyes is any indication.

“You’ve been bit.”

Keith doesn’t bother pulling his dagger, raising his hands slowly on either side of his face instead. He doesn’t bother hiding his glare either though.

“It’s not what you think.”

Lance cocks his gun, practically hissing through his teeth. “Are you saying that’s not a fucking _bite mark_ on your ankle?” Keith’s silence is apparently answer enough. “Get the fuck up.” He motions with his gun, taking a step back to give Keith room to struggle to his feet. The whole time, the gun stays perfectly trained on Keith’s forehead; an undeniable kill shot. 

“I told you,” Keith tries again. “It isn’t what it looks like. I’m not-”

“Shut up. You don’t get to try and talk your way out of this, not when you’re putting our entire camp at risk,” Lance cuts him off with a growl. “How long?”

“How long what?”

This time, Lance’s carefully constructed facade cracks a bit, the anger and fear bleeding through.

“How long before you _turn_ , asshole?” He yells. “How long do we have to get you and your friends the fuck out of our camp? How long do I have before I have to shoot you in the fucking head? How. Fucking. Long.”

“I won’t.”

Lance’s eyebrows draw together, the barrel of his gun dropping just a fraction in his confusion.

“Excuse me?”

Keith takes a breath, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“I won’t turn.”

Lance blinks, opening and closing his mouth once, twice, at a complete loss for words. Then, as expected, the anger is renewed and the gun is back between Keith’s eyes.

“You think I’m an idiot, mullet? You think I haven’t heard the same shit from every goddamn victim we’ve had to… you think I haven’t _seen_ …?”

“Lance?” Coran’s accented voice suddenly interrupts their conversation, the man appearing in the door to the operating room. “What on earth-?”

“Keith!” Pidge shouts, pulling out her own gun and pointing it at Lance at the same time that Shiro hurries headlong into the fray, forcing himself in between Keith and Lance as if that doesn’t mean the gun is now trained right on him instead.

“Just calm down, Lance. Let us explain.”

“Explain what, Shiro?” Coran asks, voice surprisingly calm despite the tension in the room. Shiro opens his mouth to do so, but Lance beats him to it.

“His ankle isn’t _twisted_ ,” he spits out as if personally offended by the omission. “It’s _infected_.”

“Infected…” Coran repeats, word soft and sad as he glances down at the obvious bite mark on Keith’s ankle. “Oh. Oh my dear boy…”

“Step aside, Shiro,” Lance says, voice hard. He gestures to the right with his gun but Shiro stays between them. “I’m sure he’s important to you, but you know we can’t just let him-”

“Keith,” Shiro interrupts, though his eyes never stray from Lance’s face, even with the gun pressed nearly flush to his chest. “Take off your shirt.” Keith feels his stomach drop at the request, but he doesn’t refuse, ripping the shirt off of his back in one sharp motion before straightening his spine and staring straight ahead at nothing. Waiting.

Coran sucks in a startled breath.

Lance whispers an involuntary, “Holy shit...”

And Keith doesn’t blame them. Not when he knows exactly what they’re seeing, what their minds are probably refusing to believe. But it’s right there, the proof of it permanently embedded in his skin. 

He knows what he looks like; he wouldn’t believe it either.

“Are those…?” Lance finally manages to ask, gun hanging slack and pointed at the floor, already completely forgotten. Shiro nods, stepping aside to give them a better look. Keith feels too exposed, itchy in his own skin, but he keeps his head held high and shoulders squared. If it means not getting a bullet between the eyes, he’ll bear it.

“Keith’s been bitten twenty-six times so far,” Pidge offers, voice trembling but strong and factual. “They vary in location, severity, and thickness of scar tissue, but the infection always fades in under a week.”

Lance looks like he’s about to pass out, so overwhelmed by the impossible information that he doesn’t even seem to notice his gun is still cocked when he uses the barrel of it to scratch mindlessly at the back of his head. “So, wait… Just. Just hold on a second. You’re saying he-”

“Twenty-six bites so far and he’s never turned,” Pidge finishes for him. “Not once.”

“I told you,” Keith tacks on too, just because he can. And it’s probably hysterics, but Lance doesn’t flip him off or roll his eyes at that. He laughs. First breathy and stunned, then full and loud.

“Holy shit. Holy shit! Coran, he… Keith, are you _immune_?!” He doesn’t seem to know where to look or who to talk to, disabling his gun and holstering it at the same time that he rushes into Keith’s personal space like he has none. His wide eyes trail shamelessly over each bite scar, one of his hands reaching out to touch as if on automatic reflex. He doesn’t, but it’s close, fingers trembling barely a centimeter away from a scar or two. Keith’s pretty sure he’s blushing all the way down his face and neck, maybe even his chest, but he’s too stunned to breathe let alone put his shirt back on.

“I don’t… I’m not sure about _immune_ , but yeah, I um…” Keith clears his throat, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck, trying to ignore how hot he is all of a sudden. “I haven’t turned _yet_ , so.”

It’s not till Lance looks up at him, vibrant blue eyes filled with wonder, that Keith realizes just how close they actually are.

“Is it true?” Allura is suddenly in his space as well, expression caught between disbelief and raw hope. Her eyes are shining, lips trembling. Keith hadn’t even noticed Coran disappear to fetch her, too distracted by Lance’s wonder. And his eyes. And his stupidly pretty face just inches from his own.

Well fuck.

“It’s… yeah,” Keith stammers, taking a step back and swallowing hard. “It’s true, I guess?”

They spend the next hour theorizing Keith’s immunity and taking blood samples that Coran plans to cross reference with the research Allura’s father had managed to start before his unfortunate passing. Apparently Alfor had been on to something that Keith’s blood might finally be able to crack.

Keith spends most of his time not being poked and prodded talking to Lance. After so much chaos and tragedy, it feels nice to just sit and talk with someone, even if Lance does most of it. Keith likes listening though, and when Lance gets excited, smiling through his words, he likes watching too. It feels like finally being allowed a moment’s peace, finally being allowed something _good_ in a whole hell of a lot of bad. 

“Dude, you’re like a fucking berserker!” Lance exclaims once Keith finishes telling him about their last attack. 

“When you don’t have to worry about being bitten, it’s a little easier,” Keith shrugs, though he can’t quite stop the smirk that’s begun pulling at the corner of his lips. He feels like he’s been smiling more the last hour than he has since… well definitely since before the world ended. Probably longer.

“Doesn’t mean you have to go charging in like a juggernaut,” Lance laughs and Keith laughs right along with him. “No wonder you’ve been bitten so many times. What? You were trying to be a human shield?”

It’s meant to be funny, but Keith can’t really deny it. So he doesn’t.

“I don’t know if I’m immune,” he says, trailing his thumb over a bite scar just below the inside of his wrist. “But I _am_ safer than Shiro and Pidge. So if I can gain a little extra time for them to get away, or… or if I can prevent them from getting bitten by taking a bite or two myself? Then I will. Every time.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair with what probably sounds like a self deprecating chuckle. Maybe it is. “If I can sacrifice myself to save them, then I will.”

Without warning, Lance reaches over to grab his hand, squeezing once before just lingering there, touch somehow both comforting and electrifying. Keith stops breathing for a second.

“You’re going to save a lot of people, Keith,” he says, smiling at him with so much fondness, more fondness than Keith deserves. “And you’re not gonna have to sacrifice yourself to do it.”

 _If it meant keeping you safe, I would_ , Keith doesn’t say, momentarily stunned by just how much he means it. But he does lace his fingers with Lance’s and squeeze them back. 

“Bet you’re glad you didn’t shoot me in the face, huh?” He says instead, expecting Lance to laugh or grin or nudge him in the arm. What he doesn’t expect is for Lance’s voice to drop low and his lips to curve into a smirk that’s filled with undeniable implication.

“You have no idea.”

Keith never expected to catch a break in the middle of the apocalypse, but considering otherwise means never having Lance’s hand in his, never having his words and his smile right there within reach…

Clearly he needs to send someone a thank you letter.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't been editing any of these... So I hope they're alright. See you guys soon for Day Four!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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